


The Broken Moon

by Sambrael



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Angst and Feels, Episode: s03 Chat Blanc, Gen, I made myself sad, I was shook by Chat Blanc episode, Not Beta Read, Poor broken Adrien, gabriel agreste is a shit parent, it's a metaphor, sun and moon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 15:38:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21460420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sambrael/pseuds/Sambrael
Summary: Chat Blanc sits on the roof, contemplating his situation.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 79





	The Broken Moon

**Author's Note:**

> You guys, Chat Blanc left me *shook*! I just can't get poor Adrien out of my head - little broken kitty, so alone. So, I got into his head for a bit to process things. Now I made myself sad. :(
> 
> Enjoy! :D

_Little kitty on the roof_

_Alone without his lady_

Chat Blanc sat on the edge of the roof, gazing out at the peaceful expanse of water. Water was so serene, quietly lapping against the remaining buildings in the quiet city. Was it still a city with only one citizen? Chat supposed so. Atlantis was still a city. Somewhere. And after all, who would refute his argument? The water? The broken moon?

Ah, sorry, moon. That was an accident, not intentional at all. Chat glanced up to the sky. He used to love gazing at the moon, shining orb gazing benevolently down upon the insomniac kitty as he vaulted from rooftop to rooftop. He had been a creature of the night, blending into shadow so even his golden hair seemed to be naught but a reflection of that shining moon. They called him Sunshine in the daylight, when he wore his disguise and smiled because he was told to. But he knew the truth. The sun was not his guide; he followed the moon. The sun was for his lady.

Oh, his lady, with eyes so blue like the summer sky, her smile bringing the warmth of sunshine into his heart. Her hair dark as night, a lie, a ruse to hide the sunshine in her soul. Chat laughed to himself. He wondered if she felt the pull of the night when she had worn the ring. Just that once, her long hair trailing behind her, dark as her suit. He saw that mischief in her eyes, knowing that thrill that accompanied the mantle of destruction. And yet he couldn’t hold a candle to the sunshine she carried when in red. He'd been a failure as a bug.

A failure as a black cat, too. Chat looked down at his bleached claws. White was supposed to be purity and innocence. It was a lie. He was a lie. A little white lie. Chat smiled to himself, wondering how funny his little joke would be if there was someone there to hear it.

_Little white lie, sitting on the roof. _

_Alone but for the silent water and the broken moon. _

And the sun shining over the whole of it. Chat wondered why the moon bothered to stay there, broken and useless, when the sun shone on. The sun, giver of life and warmth, looked with pity at his counterpart, who simply hung there, listless and destroyed. The moon, who hung there and wondered whether to crash into the offensive Earth, her tether and slave master and the cause of her destruction, or to take advantage of this schism and just … drift away. Would anyone miss the moon? Would Chat Blanc miss the moon? He was no longer a creature of the night, not with this new glaring suit and electric blue eyes. No, the night would not love him again, he had broken its mistress. He had taken her for granted, thinking she would always be there to envelop Chat in robes of starlight and darkness, thinking her beauty was his to behold and own. He didn’t own the night; the night had no master, least of all a broken little kitty, all alone.

Night hadn’t come to taunt Chat with his rejection, though. Night refused to give Chat Blanc rest. And so Chat simply sat there, pondering the broken moon and the judging sun, wondering how long it had been since he’d seen a night. He couldn’t remember. How does one measure the passage of time when the days do not pass, the night does not come to be counted? He did not hunger, did not thirst. Sleep, ever that elusive respite (even when the night was kind to him and before he had broken its shining lady) did not call to him even now. He had a soft memory, like a forgotten dream, that he used to require taking off his mask at times. There was a friend, then. A grumpy, acerbic friend, but a companion nevertheless. Chat Blanc wondered where his friend had gone. He wondered if this suit would ever come off again. But, again, he didn’t even know how long he had been wearing it. The nights refused to be counted. The day refused to leave.

Perhaps he had broken time. That would explain why the moon just hung there, listless and passive, waiting on the sun to tell her what to do, where to go. Waiting on the earth to push her, pull her, use her and abuse her. Why didn’t she just leave?

Perhaps she, like Chat Blanc, had nowhere to go. Perhaps she didn’t realize that time was broken and she was no longer required to protect the night, serve the earth, reflect the sun.

Perhaps she didn’t know she was free.

After all, what good was freedom when you were broken, nowhere to go, and all those you love have rejected you? Chat Blanc wanted to scream at the sun. “Why do you reject your lady? She may be broken, useless, and lost, but all she ever wanted was to be yours? _I_ did this to her! Don’t hate her for _my_ mistake. Hate _me_, if you must hate.”

It would be nice to be hated. It would be nice to be _felt about_. Because that would imply someone around to _feel._ Chat Blanc wondered if he even _felt_ anymore. He felt alone, but what does alone feel like? Happy? Sad? Angry? Fearful? All these were meaningless, gentle breezes wafting over Chat, but nothing penetrated his armored suit. Chat reached out, trying to grasp one of these feelings, to _feel_ it. What used to make him _feel_?

His lady? His lady … Chat knew he should feel something when he thought of her. Love? Longing? Sorrow?

Guilt?

He probably should feel guilt. He thinks he destroyed her. Broke her worse than the moon. Sealed her up tight in a shell of stone, she stood there still, refusing to move and forgive him. She stood there, judging him for his weakness, for his brokenness, his inability to stand up to the man who owned his soul. His lady owned his heart, but his father owned his soul. And now, as Chat sat alone, his lady forever stood next to their enemy, his task-master and leash, the author of his destruction. His father, who with his final words tore Chat’s soul in two, leaving him without drive or direction. Leaving him alone.

And Chat couldn’t even find it in himself to be angry at the man. What would be the point? He stood there, surrounded by water, feeling nothing and doing nothing. Why waste his anger, his hate, on someone who has become something so insignificant? A statue. One of thousands, perhaps millions, decorating the seabed floor. Were they all judging him, or were they simply decorations now? Thoughtless, unfeeling witnesses to Chat’s final day (such a long day), waiting for his lady.

The day would never end, his lady would never come to forgive him, love him, give him worth. White wasn’t the color of purity; it was the color of vacancy, a lack of color. Chat Blanc was an empty vessel, free of guilt, free of hate, free of worth and value. He looked up at the sun, shining down in judgement but Chat no longer felt her ire. Her light and shame reflected off Chat’s shining suit, protection from all that sought to hurt him. Once, it was angry akumas, tossing his body across the city.

Now there were no akumas.

No anger.

No city.

Just Chat Blanc. Just a little kitty on the roof. Alone without his lady.


End file.
